Railroaded 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  “Seriously? You want me to attend another railroad club meeting? Two in the same week?”

  “If we want to find out more about a possible woman who was having an affair with Wilbur, then yes. And didn’t you tell me one of the women you met tonight even insinuated as much?”

  “Um, yeah. Evelyn Watross. She was the one who had a coronary when she thought their precious Golden Spike replica was stolen.”

  “It’s just a meeting. It’ll be over in no time.”

  “Boy, you’re going to owe me for this. Dinner at the P83 Entertainment District in Peoria. Restaurant of my choice.”

  “Done.”

  He gave me one of those cute, irresistible looks of his, and I wound up planting a kiss on his lips. So much for sticking to my guns as far as my mother was concerned. I phoned her a little while later, telling her I had changed my mind.

  “I knew you’d come to your senses, Phee. One of those H/O harlots has to be the woman who that scoundrel was seeing. And most likely the murderess.”

  “Mother, you can’t keep referring to them as man-chasing tramps or, worse yet, murderesses. I’m sure they’re delightful, normal women, just like the ones we met tonight.”

  “I’ll reserve my opinion for when I get to the meeting. Call me if anything comes up.”

  The next day, Marshall was out of the office more than in, having to handle a few of his smaller cases as well as continue interviewing the Rhythm Tappers at the posse station. Same deal for Nate.

  At midday, Augusta received a fax from Deputy Bowman with Wilbur Maines’s autopsy report. Also included in that fax was a background sheet listing prior employment and other pertinent information, including address, phone number, and a recent credit report. True, the confidential fax was clearly sent to Mr. Nate Williams and Mr. Marshall Gregory, but as Augusta said, “I can’t help it if the papers slip out of my hands and I have to put them back in order. I have to read the words in order to do that.”

  “You could just look at the page numbers,” I told her.

  That was before we both broke up laughing.

  “Read it for yourself, Phee. The men will probably tell you what’s in it anyway. Besides, Mr. Williams is a detective. He’ll know I’ve already looked at it the minute I hand it to him.”

  Maybe it was my accounting background, but my eyes immediately fixated on the credit report from Experian. “No outstanding debts as far as I can see, but holy moly, the guy sure owes—or should I say owed—a lot of money to creditors. Of course, this report doesn’t show his income. That does make a difference.”

  Augusta leaned back and tapped the desk with her index finger. “Maybe they were drowning in debt and the missus decided to do old Wilbur in so any insurance monies could be used to pay off those debts. Then she could go off and live the good life.”

  “Good grief, Augusta! We’re trying to figure out if anyone else might have had a motive to kill the guy, not give Roxanne another one!”

  “Let me see that again. I didn’t take a close enough look at where the guy used to work.”

  I handed the document back to Augusta and watched the expression on her face as she perused it. It went from wide-eyed and noncommittal to a deep furrow.

  “Hmm. Wilbur worked for Sherrington Manufacturing in Dubuque, Iowa. Stone’s throw from my neck of the woods in Wisconsin. Sherrington. That company’s been in business since before I was born. Appliance parts, I think. I’m not sure. Seems I remember reading something about them. Huh. Embezzlement? Scandal? It couldn’t have been food poisoning, like those processing plants . . . For the life of me, I can’t remember what the heck it was.”

  “Does the fax say what Wilbur did at Sherrington?”

  “Nope. Only gives his dates of employment. After he left Sherrington, he went to work for Catapult Construction Equipment in Des Moines. Nothing here to indicate he ever worked for railroad companies, or toy companies that made trains, for that matter. Guess building those model trains was a hobby, not the result of being around them.”

  “I didn’t see anything, other than his credit card debt, that would raise an eyebrow. It wasn’t as if he owed money to the Mob.”

  “Hate to say it, Phee, but it doesn’t look good for the wife. I mean, other than the banks, who would have cared if he owed money?”

  I shook my head. “Argh. Brings us back to the age-old motives of love and revenge. Geez, I hope I’m wrong. I really, really hope I’m wrong or I’ll never hear the end of it from my mother.”

  “Want to take a peek at the autopsy report as long we’re looking this thing over?”

  “Give me a second. How about I grab our sandwiches from the fridge in the breakroom and we can go over it together? Good thing we both brought our lunches today, huh? I rarely do that.”

  Augusta grimaced. “I try not to. It’s too much work in the morning, and who feels like making a sandwich the night before? Only reason I’ve got one is because it’s left over from a giant sub.”

  I smiled and darted across the room to retrieve our lunches.

  “We’re not expecting anyone for another half hour, so pull up a chair,” Augusta said.

  The two of us studied the autopsy report as if we were about to take a quiz on it. Augusta, with her hand under her chin, and me leaning my head against the elbow I propped up on her desk.

  “Phooey,” she said. “Nothing here we don’t already know, except for lots of medical mumbo jumbo.”

  “Blunt force trauma all right. If I’ve read this carefully, the prior electrical shock he got wasn’t even as strong as a Taser, but enough to stun him long enough for the murderer to deliver that blow. Crime of opportunity or what?”

  “Maybe old Wilbur wasn’t working on that circuit board alone. Maybe he had company. After the wife dropped him off. It’s feasible, you know.”

  “Anything’s feasible. It’s evidence we need. Darn it, those deputies are looking for corroborating evidence. Meanwhile, Nate and Marshall are hoping they’ll find something that will point to another player.”

  I stretched my arms and rolled my neck. “Hmm, if what you say is true, maybe it could explain those glue drops on some of the rocks. Of course the lab hasn’t positively identified the substance yet, but what else could it be?”

  “Clear nail polish?”

  “Yeesh. Another piece of evidence that could incriminate Roxanne. I’m going to stick with the glue theory for a minute. Suppose someone was working with Wilbur on that circuit board and maybe something in the board needed to be glued together.”

  “Glue? On a circuit board?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Oh what the hell,” Augusta said. “That’s what we have Google for. Give me a minute.”

  Twenty seconds later we learned glue is definitely used on printed circuit boards, the same kind as the ones those model railroads use. But it has to be heated up and used with a glue gun.

  I tossed the autopsy report toward Augusta and stood. “Crap. Maybe it was clear nail polish after all.”

  “Doesn’t mean it was Roxanne’s.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right. Well, this was a most enlightening lunch. I’d better get back to work.”

  The next hour and a half flew by. I was so engrossed with my spreadsheets I literally jumped when the phone rang.

  Thank goodness it was Augusta. “There’s a Ms. Cecilia Flanagan here to see you.”

  “Huh? Cecilia?”

  “Yes. Ms. Cecilia Flanagan.”

  “Is she by herself, or is my mother lurking around with her?”

  “Herself.”

  Then I heard Augusta speak with Cecilia. “Miss Kimball will be right out to see you.”

  I couldn’t for the life of me imagine what Cecilia could be doing here. In a quick second I saved my files and stepped out of my office. Cecilia, dressed as usual in shades of black and white, stood next to Augusta’s desk holding a small shoebox.

  “Sorry to bother you, Phee, but before I drove all the
way back to Sun City West, I needed someone’s opinion about the tap shoes I bought. The only store that sells them in this area is right around the corner from your office, so I hoped, if it wouldn’t inconvenience you, you’d take a look.”

  Then she turned to Augusta. “Maybe you could look as well.”

  I hastily introduced Cecilia to Augusta. After the usual nice-to-meet-you pleasantries were done, Cecilia explained she had to buy her own pair of tap shoes for the Rhythm Tappers.

  “It’s like bowling shoes,” Cecilia said. “They have pairs we can borrow, but ew! Who wants to be wearing someone else’s shoes?”

  Then she opened the box. “The standard shoes are beige with ribbons across the ankles. All of them come with some sort of silvery glitter on them. I just don’t know. I selected a pair with the least amount of sparkle, but they’re still so . . . so . . . flamboyant.”

  “My mother said you tap-danced in school. Didn’t you wear the same kind of shoes?”

  “Oh no. Back then they were plain. Muted black, if I remember correctly, just like the shoes we had to wear for school. In fact, we weren’t allowed to wear shiny, patent leather shoes. Our teachers said that boys could look at those shoes and see under our skirts.”

  Augusta’s jaw nearly hit the ground and I had all I could do to prevent myself from bursting out laughing. “Your shoes are fine,” I said. “The perfect blend of performance and style.”

  Cecilia covered the box and tucked it under her arm. “That’s a relief. It’s just that, well . . . when I put them on, I don’t feel like me anymore. Next thing you know, I’ll be lining up to join those Choo-Choo Chicks for a wild ride at the Model Railroad Club.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “Stepping out of one’s comfort zone may be a good thing,” I said. “Besides, all the tappers will be wearing glittery shoes, so you’ll fit right in.”

  “I hope this won’t last for long. I mean, I hope Wilbur’s murder gets solved before the tap dance recital. That’s coming up in a few weeks. The Spring Fling Thing tickets are already on sale. They’ll probably stick me in the chorus line. Hopefully the line in back and not the front line. At least I don’t have to worry about a solo part.”

  As soon as she uttered the words “solo part,” something flashed across my mind. “Roxanne’s a good dancer, from what I’ve heard. Does she have any solo parts?”

  Cecilia nodded. “And how. It’s all everyone talked about at our practice session. They gave her solos to Candace Kane after the deputies carted poor Roxanne off.”

  The laugh lines around Augusta’s mouth widened. “Candace Kane? As in Candy Kane?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Sounds more like a stripper than a tap dancer, if you ask me.”

  “Geez, Augusta,” I said.

  “Well, I call ’em as I see ’em.”

  “You may not be far off,” Cecilia said to Augusta. “Judging from what I’ve seen, Candace Kane really lives up to her name. Very striking and over-the-top.”

  “ ‘Over-the-top’ as in looks or behavior?” I asked.

  “Both. Of course I can only vouch for the looks part. The behavior part was kind of implied during a few hushed conversations that took place in the changing room. Anyway, you think these shoes will be all right? I can always special order a muted pair, but they’d cost me more, and I’m not sure if the Rhythm Tappers would want me to wear a different kind of shoe. Dear me! I wish I never told your mother I’d do this for Operation Agatha.”

  “The shoes are fine. You’ll be fine. Trust me, they won’t stand out. No one will even notice. It’s not like the costumes.”

  The moment I said “costumes,” Cecilia face turned ashen.

  “Oh no. I never thought about the costumes. I simply can’t wear anything frivolous or suggestive.”

  Augusta shot me a look and then turned to her computer monitor, as if she was expecting some breaking news to appear on the screen.

  I took a step closer to Cecilia and gave her a pat on the shoulder. “I doubt you’ll have to worry. Chances are they’ll pick a movie theme from Walt Disney or something.” That, or the opening number from Chicago.

  “I hope you’re right, Phee. Anyway, I’ll insist on dancing in the back row.”

  “Good plan,” Augusta shouted out.

  This time I shot her a look.

  Cecilia thanked us for taking the time to comment on her tap shoes and walked toward the door.

  “Um, one quick question,” I said before she left our office. “This Candace Kane . . . do you think she’s the type of person who’d have ulterior motives? You know, to weasel the solos away from Roxanne?”

  Cecilia furrowed her brow. “I have no idea, but some of the other women thought she was a little too eager to snatch those solos.”

  “With a name like Candy Kane, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” Augusta said.

  “Oh. That’s not her maiden name. Her maiden name was Toplinsky. Candace Toplinsky. Some of the women said she married Barry Kane just so she could get a snazzy last name.”

  “Harrumph,” Augusta muttered. “Much easier to have one’s name legally changed than to wind up marrying for it and getting stuck washing someone’s dirty old socks and the like.”

  “I suppose,” Cecilia said. “Well, I’d better get going. Thanks again.”

  I walked her to the door and closed it behind her. “Really, Augusta? ‘Washing someone’s dirty socks?’” Then I let out a laugh.

  “Glad you think it’s funny. But don’t come crying to me when Marshall’s socks pile up on the laundry room floor.”

  “I’m not worried. The guy’s pretty conversant with the mechanics needed to turn on a washing machine.”

  “That Cecilia Flanagan is quite the conservative ditty, don’t you think?”

  “I think she was a former nun, but my mother says no. Nun or not, Cecilia gave us something to think about. I mean, as far as exonerating Roxanne goes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We now have another suspect in Wilbur’s death—Candace Kane. What if she bumped him off and set up Roxanne to take the fall so she could get the solo parts in that tap-dancing show? I know, I know. It’s a weak theory. Maybe even borderline ridiculous, but at least it throws another suspect into the mix other than Roxanne.”

  Augusta shook her head. “Too complicated. Why didn’t she just do away with the competition and call it a day?”

  “Too obvious. Maybe this Candace Kane is quite the diabolical little planner. Nate and Marshall always say people have killed for less.”

  “You’re going out on a limb, Phee.”

  “Argh. I know you’re right, but it’s the only branch I have. We’ve got to find out if those drops are glue or polish or something else.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, we. I can get my mother to do some snooping around. Those women all seem to use the same nail salon in Sun City West, so it might not be so hard. My mother can always tell the technician she wants her nails to look like Candace’s and see what happens.”

  “Better hope this Candace doesn’t like black or dark purple nails. Look, I know I was the one who mentioned nail polish to begin with, but does that stuff glop up or does it run all over the place? Never use the stuff. I like my fingernails just the way they are, so I can press down on them and make sure the blood’s still running. And don’t get me started on toenails.”

  “‘Press down and make sure the blood’s still running’?”

  “Why do you think they make you take off your nail polish if you have surgery? One quick look and they’ll know if you’re dead or alive.”

  “Uh, I think I’d know without pressing down on my nails. But I don’t use polish either. I get them manicured and buffed.” Then I pressed my left index finger on top of Augusta’s desk and stared. “Yep, blood’s still running.”

  “You can thank me.”

  “Honestly, Augusta, this whole case looks like a slam dunk for the prosecution. We need to ferret out any
possible suspects and, other than that very weak motive for Candace, I’ve got nothing. Zilch.”

  “Didn’t you tell me you found out Wilbur had a few storage units in Surprise?”

  “Uh-huh. Some guy in the Railroad Club mentioned it.”

  “Maybe our victim was dealing in stolen goods. Or worse yet, drugs. Or even worse than that, stolen drugs. Every other night someone in Phoenix is murdered over drugs.”

  “I don’t think Wilbur was dealing in drugs. Stolen or otherwise. Besides, the guy from the club said he’d been to Wilbur’s storage units and it was all railroad stuff. Like old circuit boards and motors.”

  “Maybe Wilbur didn’t show the guy all his storage units. Begs the question, doesn’t it?”

  “Possession of tangible goods that someone else wants can be a motive for murder, I’ll give you that much. But like the guy said last night, if that was the case, the murder would have taken place by the storage units, not the model railroad exhibit.”

  “It could have been unfinished business.”

  “Ugh. Speaking of unfinished business, I’d better get back to work. It’s getting late.”

  * * *

  Marshall called me at a little before five and said he’d head straight home from the “interviews that got him nowhere.”

  “I’ve been sitting so long,” he said, “I’ll be a candidate for muscle atrophy. Mind if we make sandwiches and I can head to the fitness center?”

  “No problem. I want all your muscles to be in top shape.”

  He left the house at a little before seven, and I decided to call my mother to see if I could persuade her to stop by the nail salon.

  “I’m in the middle of Family Feud; call me at seven thirty.”

  “Can’t you DVR it or something?” I asked.

  “I can, but I like to watch it in real time.”

  “It’s not real time. It’s prerecorded.”

  “It’s real time for me. I’ll talk to you in twenty-five minutes. Unless they caught Wilbur’s murderer. Did they catch Wilbur’s murderer?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Twenty-five minutes.”

  Good thing Marshall was at the fitness center or he would have been blown away by my conversation with my mother. Then again, he was getting used to her.